


Class Cephalopoda

by ancientreader



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dr. Watson has a filthy mouth, Hey I invented a tag, M/M, Tentacle-fic-adjacent porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader
Summary: “It sometimes strikes me as an enviable condition,” I remarked, looking over at the page Holmes was studying."What, to be a mollusc?"For tazlet's prompt "But that looks like a squid!," which doesn'tquitemake an appearance.





	Class Cephalopoda

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [TSylvestris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TSylvestris/pseuds/TSylvestris) for the lightning beta!

“It sometimes strikes me as an enviable condition,” I remarked, looking over at the page Holmes was studying.

“What, to be a mollusc?”

“No — well, never mind; it was a fancy, merely.”

One might think that my years in the Army, and more recently my years as Sherlock Holmes’s enthusiastic partner in what we are taught to regard as unnatural acts, had stripped me of such reticences. In any case I knew perfectly well that Holmes would never allow my retreat to pass uninvestigated.

Indeed a gleam had come into his eye.

I sighed, and surrendered. Quite often, with Holmes, I find myself sighing and surrendering — almost always, admittedly, to our mutual profit, so I cannot complain. “To have eight arms, like the octopus in that drawing you were studying.”

 _Were,_ for Holmes had already set the book on his bedside table. “Do go on, Doctor,” he said.

“A practical demonstration may be of use.” I rolled myself up and over to straddle him, pushing up his nightshirt en route — ever helpful, he raised his hips to allow me to bare him from collarbones to feet.

My leg would not allow me to maintain this position for long, but I expected I would not have to. I laid the fingertips of my left hand upon his parted lips and pressed there; at once, I felt his tongue move delicately against the pads of my fingers, one by one, and then he started over again with my forefinger and drew each finger in turn into his mouth, pushing his tongue up and sucking as he would my prick. “Yes,” I said, “that’s good, and now how about this” — I bent to worry with my teeth at his nipple, so tender and ruddy a bonbon, and drew my free hand down his side to hold his hip.

I have always liked the way even a small pain has a dramatic effect on Holmes. I bit him; he raised his head and tried to suck down my entire hand. No one but me has ever seen this libertine Holmes. No one but me knows how quickly his mouth grows wet and how his lips shine like a Cleveland Street whore’s. “If I had three hands,” I said, “I could fuck your mouth with one and pinch both your teats.” He was lapping at my fingers like a thirsty dog and I was tempted to remain as I was but I had not completed my demonstration by any means.

I withdrew my hand from his mouth and crawled backward until I could lie with my head between his thighs; he raised his legs at once and rocked up, the better to expose himself. “If _you_ had a pair of extra hands now,” I said, “you could set one pair behind your knees and use the other two to do this — ”

I parted the halves of his arse and rubbed at his opening with my thumbs.

“Ah, God, John,” he said. We may be in a hansom cab or even, God help me, conferring with Lestrade, and if some chance brings to mind the groans and pleadings to which our congress reduces him I can go almost mad with wanting him. He had bathed earlier that evening but the smell of him was strong now; it made me want to bite his thighs and fuck him, or frig him till he spent in my mouth and then feed his spend back to him in a kiss, or hold his head still with my hands wrapped tight in his black hair and make him beg to do more than touch his lips to my stand.

Not yet.

“Suppose,” I continued, shifting about, “I had a hand to frig you with, and another to roll your stones in, like this” — he gasped and pushed up into my grip — “and two to pinch you, as I did before? Suppose I fucked your mouth with one hand and your arse with the other? That’s only six hands, Sherlock; what might I do with the other two? Hold you down, perhaps, or spank you?  And I’d still have my mouth free for all the filth you like to hear from me.”

Another idea occurred to me; I climbed back up Holmes and pinned his hands to the bed. His color was high, sweat stood out above his mouth; when I kissed him his eyes flew open and he moaned into my mouth — to me, the most unexpectedly profound of intimacies, as if he strove to commune directly with my deepest secret self . . . I began to speak between kisses — I must have spoken brokenly — I said, or I said _something like_ , “Or I could hold you like this, I could keep you still, with my hands on your hands, and my hands on your hips, and I could bring myself off on your belly and tease you too, so that you were frantic with it and imploring me to let you spend — would you like that?”

“Yes, John — please!” he cried; and I laid myself down on him, kissing him, while we rutted together, slippery with our sweat and our early salt spill; the crisis bore down on me and swept me up with such speed as a man of middle years imagines he will never again experience. When I had come to my senses I moved so that I was partly on the sheets — _Dear God,_ I thought, feeling them, _there will be no sleeping in_ this _bed tonight_  — and saw to Holmes. The truth was that I had been eager to taste him from the beginning, but the telling of my voluptuous imaginings had taken precedence. With what greed I filled my mouth with him, how I worked him with my hand as I sucked and licked him, how I lifted my head away from him to tease at the opening of his cock with the tip of my tongue, and with my finger, and how he cursed me and seized my head to bring my mouth down upon himself again; how he spent, shuddering, afterward caressing my face so tenderly, until he urged me up to lie alongside him and kissed me with the kisses of his mouth . . . I will never have enough hands, enough cocks, enough mouths for all I want to do to him. I will never have enough tongues with which to tell him how I adore him.

We dozed a while, as men do when they are loved and sated, both; at some point, Sherlock roused enough to say, “But it’s a squid, John, not an octopus,” and grew indignant when I laughed at him. “I suppose you’ll tell me you knew that and were merely exploiting an opportunity, won’t you?” — then, when I only laughed harder, he groaned, for the solution had come to him.

“And you weren’t feeling bashful at all, you wicked creature!” he said, and kissed me yet again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> With no time to unearth any particular book of natural history illustrations for Holmes to be not entirely engrossed in, I resorted to an image search, which naturally led me to [Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/search/pins/?q=cephalopod%20illustration&rs=guide&term_meta%5B%5D=cephalopod%7Ctyped&add_refine=illustration%7Cguide%7Cword%7C1). Really, it's absurd that Dr. Watson could even pretend not to know the difference between a squid and an octopus. Isn't it? Um.


End file.
